A Prince in Pain
by Jellico
Summary: Nine-year-old Dastan misbehaves in order to gain the respect of his new older brothers. Unfortunately, he gains far more the displeasure of his adoptive father, King Sharaman. Punishment is swift but so is patience, love and understanding.


When the supreme ruler of Persia was in residence, Saturday evenings were Dastan's favorite time of day. The king was not just the sovereign of a vast and wealthy empire then. He was also the parent of three young sons, all of whom tried hard to win his approval by excelling in their warrior training. Naturally, when King Sharaman was within the palace walls, none of his boys could simply go to him on a whim to ask a question or to proudly demonstrate all he had been learning, but each prince was guaranteed a block of time that was specifically reserved for him and the king, a nugget of three hours or perhaps even more every week when he could seek fatherly counsel, review the progress of his studies, or simply enjoy the quiet company of a man the world over admired greatly. Occasionally, the king would entertain all three of his sons at once, and regale them far into the night with fierce and fascinating tales of dark and dangerous lands, but the best times of all for Dastan were the ones with just him and his new father.

Of course, in the beginning, Dastan hadn't really dared to share much of himself with the king. Insecurities about his adoption had always been foremost in his mind and had therefore clouded each one of his scheduled visits. But such was no longer the case and eight months of reassurances had finally put him at ease. The fine clothes, the bountiful toys, the sumptuous bedroom all his own, and especially King Sharaman's regular and individual attention, all of these had collectively worked their magic to convince him that he wasn't still here on the sovereign's impulse, a temporary plaything to be clucked over for a while then tossed back into the streets. Dastan was a permanent member of the royal family now, a formal Prince of Persia according to the title he'd been granted, which meant he was wanted just as much as his royal-blood brothers, Tus and Garsiv.

Best of all, though, today was Saturday and the king was once again in residence.

Because of this - and because of this alone, unlike the last three Saturdays – Dastan suffered to be bathed by his attendants without too much protest. He didn't force the royal eunuchs to wrestle him nearly as much as usual in order to remove his dirty garments, and then they only had to chase his naked form around the Prince's Wing for five minutes, instead of the standard fifteen, before they caught him and carried him squirming and arguing straight back to his private rooms. Afterwards, he even stood relatively still while they lifted him dripping from the tub, and then dried him off and combed his hair. Normally, he fidgeted and carried on to such an extent that his locks were pulled dreadfully and his yelling could be heard in every crevice of the enormous wing the princes shared, but not this night. This night, the servants did not long to smack Dastan's bare bottom or to tap his impudent young face in temper. For once, the former street urchin stayed almost exactly where he was placed after they took him out of water, and he only put up a token protest when they covered him lightly in noble scented oils, then dressed him in his favorite cotton bedclothes. Of course, the second they passed his arms through the sleeves of his silken robe, Dastan was off and running. Distantly, he heard his personal bodyguard shouting after him to wait, but the youngster could not be bothered anymore with such virtues as patience. His tiresome bath was ended and the sun would soon set.

His time with Father was now!

With his bejeweled slippers slap-slapping along the palace tiles and his colorful red robe billowing out behind him, a grinning Dastan charged down passageways, cut through undercrofts, sprinted across multiple mezzanines and dodged past countless evening courtiers. More than once he might have tripped over a servant scrubbing the castle floors, but he was far too nimble for that. He leapt over their crouching forms, or somersaulted across their backs with a whoop of delight, and then he was up again and running straight for the king's quarters, far from caring if his personal guard was keeping up.

At last he was there!

Barely panting, he bounced on his toes and knocked at once on the sixty foot doors of the Great Chamber, wanting very much to twist the knobs and dash inside. Months ago, he would have done exactly that in the abandoned slum house he used to share with his best friend, Bis, but he certainly couldn't do that now. He wasn't still a poor, orphaned peasant with no concept of protocol or royal etiquette. He was a prince, and while he did not act like one during his dreaded weekly baths, he had long since learned that princes must wait outside their father's rooms for the doors to open, just like everyone else.

Of course, once they did and the servant retreated to give the king and his youngest heir their privacy, Dastan practically flew across the opulent chambers directly to Sharaman's side.

"Father!" he cried. The king was affectionate with his sons so Dastan eagerly flung his skinny arms around the seated monarch and buried his face in the man's chest. "I've missed you, Father! What bandits did you meet in your travels this time?"

"Hello, Dastan." At the perfunctory hug he was given and the gruff tone with which he was addressed, the orphan boy lost his smile, released his king and stood quietly by his side.

"Father...?" His heart thudded nervously in his chest. "What's wrong?"

"Many things."

Dastan swallowed hard. "What things?"

"A great many from what I have seen myself and been told this day." As his son looked on the verge of taking a step in retreat, Sharaman reached out and pulled him close to his chair, then kept him there with a strong arm about his waist. "Might it be true that you have been calling the stable-hands names, accusing them of reeking worse than the manure they shovel each day?"

Dastan sucked in a breath, wondering exactly how the king had learned of this. Since he dared not ask, he blushed but held his head high and nodded once.

"I did say that, Father, but it's not a lie. They do stink. Not even I did as much when I was a street rat."

"That may be so," Sharaman told him, "but it is hardly a reason to remind them, is it? What you said was unkind and unnecessary, Dastan."

"Yes, but Tus and Garsiv often say it too and—"

Sharaman tapped his hip at once to silence him. "I am not interested at the moment in what your older brothers have to say on this matter. I shall address my opinions with them separately." The king waited for his youngest son to look suitably chastised before he continued. "Now. Someone must clean up after our horses, must they not?"

Dastan wrinkled his nose at the thought, remembering all too well the times he and Bis had worked as stable boys in the village just to earn a handful of peaches. "Yes, sir. I guess so."

"Perhaps it should be you."

"What? No! No, Father, please!"

"And why not?"

"I'm-I'm a Prince of Persia, aren't I, like Tus and Garsiv?" Dastan fidgeted openly in his distress. "Princes are above that sort of thing, aren't they, Father?"

"Princes are supposed to be above many things," the king retorted. "For example, they should be above spreading oil on the kitchen floors so the cooks slip and fall."

"I-I never did that."

Sharaman observed the boy's ducked head and sudden shyness, and he nodded sternly to himself. "Then what of throwing grapes and spitting seeds on the guards passing below your balconies? Princes should be above such common misbehavior too, don't you agree?"

The nine-year-old nodded his head guiltily. "Yes, Father, and I would never, um, do that."

"_Dastan_."

Dastan shrunk inside his bedclothes. "Yes, sir?"

"If you would never do those things, then why did I observe you doing precisely that this afternoon?"

"I ... I don't ..."

"You don't know? Well, I believe I do know," the king said, his tone quiet but firm. "I know that you wish for acceptance by your new brothers, especially Garsiv, and to obtain it, you have decided you will bury what you know in your heart to be right. You have decided to emulate the poor example they sometimes set, instead of rising above it as we both know you can do." Sharaman waited a whole minute for the boy in the crook of his arm to proffer an apology then frowned deeply when none was forthcoming. "I am disappointed in you, my son. I did not rescue you from the streets to raise another heir like the ones I already have. I brought you into this palace because I saw a noble character who could rise high to become a great and wise leader."

This was too much for Dastan. Unable to remember the last time he had allowed himself to weep for any reason, two fat tears escaped now as he ducked his head deeper in shame. "Father, I'm s-sorry." He scrubbed a small hand across his eyes and sniffed. "I know better, Father. I d-do."

"Of that I am no longer certain."

"You _can_ be certain, Father! I won't disappoint you again. I promise I w-won't!" Dastan sniffed harder as he raised a head a bit to glimpse the king's expression. "Will you ... will you keep me here? And forgive me?"

For a period that seemed insufferably long to the distraught young boy, Sharaman said nothing at all. All at once, his expression turned to stone, and Dastan suddenly felt certain that he knew what a traitor to the empire must feel like when his king sentenced him to death. His lower lip trembled in time with his kneecaps as he waited for his adoptive father to pronounce sentence. He did not have to wait long.

"I shall forgive you once you have been punished," the king abruptly decreed. "Stand before me."

Inching along at a snail's pace, Dastan eased out from his father's arm and positioned himself where he was told. He hitched in a breath as his robe was removed and his tunic raised high, but he held the material in place against his chest when the king ordered him to. He did not dare protest. He would be thrashed now he suspected, but with what he was too frightened to consider. He whimpered as the tie holding his loose cotton pants in place was pulled and the garment fell softly to his ankles, and when his father tugged on his arm until he had shuffled a few steps to the east, Dastan couldn't help it. Another two tears escaped.

"Bend," Sharaman commanded, and with no choice Dastan did, draping his bony upper body over the king's hard lap. As a street urchin, he had never once dreamt that the king himself punished the princes when they did wrong – in his imagination, it was always the palace guards who whipped them hard if such was needed – but now he knew the truth.

He held his breath and stifled another whimper as the king adjusted his position until his lower half was perfectly centered, and then well before he was ready, a thunderclap rent the room and his bare bottom exploded. He opened his mouth to wail, but bit back his cry as the chamber doors suddenly opened, and Rahim, one of the king's royal advisors, breached the privacy of their sanctuary in a hurry.

"Sire, I've just learned—"

_"Leave us!"_ the king barked and Rahim gasped his excuses. He shielded his eyes respectfully and tumbled over his own feet in his haste to retreat, but the damage was already done to Dastan's ego. The youngster blushed head to toe and loosed a sob even before the next hard wallop landed. As soon as it did, he kicked his feet and howled.

"_No-oo! Owww! F-Father!"_

Bis would be both ashamed and aghast to see his bravest friend broken like this from only two smacks of the hand, but not even this knowledge was enough to still Dastan's legs or to quiet his tongue. He squirmed and yelped across Sharaman's lap like the little boy he'd almost forgotten how to be and cried a veritable river of desperate tears with each paternal strike to his bottom. In truth, this punishment was a trifle compared to what he had experienced before while living on the streets, so Dastan knew he could take it with no sound whatsoever if he wanted to, but somehow ... he just didn't. He wasn't one of The Forgotten anymore, suffering a vicious stick-beating from a shopkeeper simply for bumping into his stall or getting in his way. This was his father punishing him – a father of his very own – and he was being spanked for genuine naughtiness this time, not kicked or punched or clubbed for no good reason at all. He wasn't being whipped with a rod that cut his skin and literally left him licking the few wounds he could reach. Instead, he was getting swatted with Father's hand across his bare rump for failing to act like the prince he was now supposed to be, and tough as Dastan was, it still burned.

It burned something terrible!

As the twelfth slap to his bottom impressed itself upon him with a fiery band he was sure to feel the next time he sat down, Dastan threw his head back and screamed,

_"I'M S-SORRY, PAPA! I'M S-SORRY!"_

Truly, he was not really expecting his punishment to end just yet, but above him, Sharaman halted his right hand in mid-descent. His royal heart was touched, for never before had Dastan addressed him so informally. Up until this moment, the boy had always called him "Father", in keeping with the example set by his adoptive brothers, who were several years older and far too mature (in their minds) to use such infantile expressions. But it suited Dastan just right, the king decided. It suited the nine-year-old perfectly.

Unwilling to continue the spanking now, Sharaman lifted the sobbing youngster to his feet and then dressed him with care, drawing the loose pants up gently so as to minimize chafing against sore skin. When the prince was fully covered, he guided him between his legs then settled him upright on his lap.

Dastan clung to him tightly.

"I'm s-sorry, Papa. I w-won't throw g-grapes or s-spit seeds on the guards anymore. I won't call the grooms n-names. I won't, Papa. I p-promise I w-won't."

Sharaman said nothing in reply while he hugged him close. When Dastan was much calmer and letting out just a few sniffles here and there, only then did the monarch speak. "Should there be a next time, I may strike you with more than my hand," he warned, while knowing he would never. "Do you understand me?"

"There won't be a n-next time. I swear it, Papa ... I-I mean Father."

Sharaman smiled and kissed the top of his dark head in blessing. "I have decided that you shall continue to call me Papa," he said.

"But … why?" Confused, Dastan knuckled the last of his tears from his face. "Tus and Garsiv don't—"

"Perhaps not now, but they did at one time when they were as young as you are now. Once you have reached your thirteenth year like Garsiv, we will see then if you are old enough to call me Father."

Dastan thought that was an awful long time to wait to be considered a "big boy" like his brothers, but he nodded nonetheless and leaned into his father, too snug at the moment to care about protesting any further. The king gave him another ten minutes to gain quiet comfort and then he eased him off his lap.

"Go to bed now, my son, and sleep well."

"What—? No!" Dastan launched himself back into the king's arms, shaking his head at being cheated of this special time with his father. They hadn't been together long enough this Saturday, and time spent over the man's knees definitely did not count.

"Dastan."

"No-o, Papa, please, not yet—"

"_Dastan."_

Pouting ferociously, Dastan stood up from the king's lap. He felt needy and infantile and close to tears again, but his spanking was over, and he was almost ten years old and a prince besides. The sons of the great King Sharaman mustn't blubber simply because their feelings are hurt and their wishes are being thwarted; why, if Bis were here right now, he would cuff his friend upside his head without hesitation for acting like such a girl! Still, Dastan couldn't escape how he felt, so he pressed his chin to his chest so the shine in his eyes was hidden.

Sharaman noted his hands creeping back beneath his robe to rub the lingering sting from his bottom and gazed on him with affection.

"Go to bed," he ordered again gently. "And forget your pain, but do not forget the lesson. I shall make time for you again on Monday."

With little choice in the matter, Dastan gave a sulky nod and began to leave, but then he turned back at Sharaman's call.

"Dastan." Once the youngster had paused and respectfully faced his father, the king smiled at him. "Do not forget either that your papa loves you."

Dastan looked into the man's eyes and knew that he wouldn't. He blinked fast and offered a wobbly smile in return, then reluctantly made his way out the enormous doors back towards the Prince's Wing. His bodyguard was waiting for him, but Dastan paid him no attention as usual. Eight steps down the passageway all tiled in gold, he picked up the pace. Another four steps and his jog turned into a run. As his robe began to flutter behind him like a falcon's wings taking flight, Dastan abrupty released a laugh, darted to the left and vaulted over a table with a warrior's cry of triumph.

He was going to spent time with his father again, and he only had two more days to wait!


End file.
